


your bones unfold in my bones

by Schwoozie



Category: Black Sails
Genre: Canon Compliant, F/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2015-06-15
Updated: 2015-06-15
Packaged: 2018-04-04 11:24:30
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,971
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/4135629
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Schwoozie/pseuds/Schwoozie
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Abigail does not leave Charles Town immediately after her father has his say, but walks along the jetty, wondering about the girl she used to be. On the way, she runs into a familiar face bound for his own destination.</p>
            </blockquote>





	your bones unfold in my bones

**Author's Note:**

> I continue to be AsheVane trash. Don't mind me.
> 
> This is NOT the same universe as "You Make the Death in Me." 
> 
> Hope you like :)

If Abigail's new governess had her way, she would have been off to Savannah the moment her father made his pronouncement; and as far as her father knows, by the time the trial begins she is already leagues away from Charles Town. An Abigail of the past would have been; would have been far too meek to flout her father's orders, to resist the wishes of her governess, to walk with her not to the carriage but to the water's edge, to look one last time on the horizon she had so ardently struggled to escape.

An Abigail of the past would have done so. But the Abigail of this time, the Abigail of now, feels as far from that child as the sky is from the sea.

She wonders, as she makes her way along the jetty—nearly deserted, as the merchants and fishmongers have all flocked to the spectacle at the center of town—if Colonel Rhett's bullet did not strike her forehead as well as Mrs. Hamilton's. She feels as stunned as if it had; as if her head is encased by some great ringing bell, the vibrations shivering through her body with the force of ocean waves. She feels unsettled, unmoored; yet somehow, the sight of the sea is calming to her. She who had never spent much time near the ocean, aside from several holidays in Brighton; she who faced the greatest terror of her life on the seas and beside it.

Being safely on land in Carolina has done nothing to stop the nightmares; and yet now, even as she looks at the waves from whence they came, she and they feel far removed. Ned Low and his ilk do not live on the seas, is not confined to the ocean floor. Those nightmares, she feels, lie now at the center of town, tangled in a hempen noose.

She thinks of her father. A father who, even after his abandonment of her, she had worshipped as any little girl would worship such a father: a great man gone to do great things, things a little girl like her could not understand.

But she does not feel like a little girl, not anymore. That the sea did take from her.

There is something coming from the sea, now—one of the warship's launches, making its way ashore.

Her grip on the railing tightens as she is overcome with a surge of worry. Why would any of them be coming ashore, when they know what fate awaits them? Why, at that, are they even still here at all? Could they think they have some hope of making a rescue attempt? Abigail does not know much about warfare, but she knows the throngs of militiamen she saw as she walked through town; she knows the might of the guns mounted on the shore. Whoever this is, they stand no chance.

Her view is obscured by mist rising from the water, but she knows with sudden clarity that it is Billy in that launch. Out of everyone, the pamphleteer's son would be the one with the bravery, the foolishness, to attempt to save their captain. It strikes fear deep into her heart, the thought of him walking into such a storm; she does not even look to her governess before pushing off the rail—

And halts in her step. For as she watched, the mist had cleared, and the figure stepping from the launch into the hands of the guards is not tall enough to be Billy; not as clean cut, not as large. He is shaped like no one she has come to know in the past days—but there was one like him before.

And as Abigail watches the guardsman snap a set of irons across his wrists, she feels her panic evaporate like spray from the sea.

“Abigail, we must go now—“

“Just a moment,” Abigail says, distracted enough for her voice to come out steady and strong as she pushes once more from the rail and begins to make her swift way down the jetty.

She reaches them just as they approach the first line of houses, hers and her governess's shoes loud enough in the deserted port that she doesn't even need to speak to be noticed. The soldiers' gazes rise one by one but it is the prisoner's eyes that she seeks; his are the last to climb from the road ahead but when they do they latch onto hers and refuse to let go.

“Lady Ashe?”

“Yes, Lieutenant,” Abigail says, then falters; now that she has reached them she feels some of her bravery waning, and she wonders, as she so often has, these past weeks, where the old Abigail has gone.

But _his_ eyes are still on her—steady and calm, as if he expected no less than for his former captive to be making her way down the quay, bound for his side. And under his regard Abigail feels strong again.

“I would like to speak with the prisoner.”

The lieutenant—a man she has seen from afar, but never spoken with—shares a glance with his sergeant before stepping forward, a placating look on his face. “Lady Ashe, this man—“

“Has told you who he is, yes?” Her voice is shriller than she would prefer, but it does not shake. “Then you know that we are acquaintances, and there is much left unsaid between us. I would like a word.” She pauses, looks to the knowing in his eyes. “Please.”

The lieutenant hesitates, looking again to his sergeant, back to her governess. Pangs of anxiety assail Abigail's gut, but her chin does not quiver.

After what seems an interminable wait, the lieutenant nods. “Yes, Lady–“

“Some privacy, please.”

He pauses again, for just as long, then nods again, slowly. “Yes, Lady Ashe. But you will stand several paces from him.”

“Alright,” Abigail says.

The soldiers slowly move away from him, several pulling out and cocking pistols as Abigail steps forward. His easy stance does not change; he could just as easily be in the middle of a tavern as in the sights of half a dozen guns.

It is in coming to stand three paces from his body that Abigail's courage once more fails. Not so much from fear, as from a loss of what to say.

She supposes she might as well start at the beginning.

“Captain Vane,” she says.

He inclines his head, gaze not moving from hers. “Miss Ashe.”

“I trust you've been well?”

The formulaic words slip from her mouth before she can stop them. The captain's eyebrows jerk upward along with the corner of his mouth. Abigail's mouth opens, then closes. She is sure the soldiers can see her blush, but for some reason that does not bother her.

“As well as can be expected,” he replies, amusement rumbling in his voice.

“Good, then. That is good.” Abigail glances at the soldiers, then takes a step closer. She feels them tense, but no one moves to stop her. Captain Vane does not move at all. “You are here to rescue Mr. McGraw?”

His eyebrows quirk again, but there is no derision in his tone. “I am here to rescue Flint. McGraw is no use to me.”

“I know,” Abigail says, for suddenly she does. The attributes of the man that had so endeared him to her—his intelligence, his gentility, his care for Mrs. Hamilton—they have no place in Captain Vane's world. Vane is not like Mr. McGraw, is not like Billy. She cannot fault him for things that are not in his nature; and somehow she is very glad they are not. She would not herself feel so strong before him if they were. “I tried to speak with my father, but... he does not see any other way.” Abigail twists her hands together, laughs softly without humor. “I told you, didn't I? I am not important enough for my words to matter much.”

Captain Vane's eyes narrow and, with a glance of his own at the lieutenant, he too steps forward. More guns cock, but he ignores them.

“Your father did not listen to you because he saw nothing in it for him,” he says quietly. “I will show him what he has to lose.” Captain Vane tilts his head, and Abigail has the sudden, wild feeling that she would like it very much if he were to touch her. “You are more important than you think.”

Abigail knows she is flushing in earnest now, but she cannot look away from him. She knows she ought to ask what he means, what his plan is; maybe, even, if she can help. But she can feel his mood shifting, readying himself for the fight ahead. A place a little girl like her has no place in.

“I hope you succeed,” she says. She almost reaches forward to touch his wrist, but refrains, remembering how careful he has always been not to touch her, not once. His men grabbed her arm occasionally, or prodded her between the shoulder blades when she did not move quickly enough; but they did not touch her skin, and he did not touch her at all. She knows these touches would mean different things, that she means this as a blessing and not a threat; and yet, it does not feel like the place for it. She very probably will not see him alive again; but if they are ever to touch, it will not be now. “Goodbye, Captain Vane.”

She is not half a step away when he halts her. Not with his touch, but with his voice, unexpected and strong.

“Abigail,” he says.

She turns, ignores the soldiers to step in once more.

“You should leave the city. Now.”

“I am on my way–“

“Now,” he says.

And she sees, in his eyes, what he means to do to this place. To her father, to the only family she has left on this continent. And she feels some of the coldness she felt at the news of Low's death seep into her bones, spill into her breath. And in this moment there is no difference between her and the woman she became on New Providence island.

“Good.”

His eyes narrow once more into a squint. He glances at the lieutenant. Then he moves in close, closer than he has ever been to her.

Before the soldiers wrench him away, he speaks twelve words, directly into her ear:

“Find me in Nassau, Abigail. There is a place for you there.”

It is a blur after that, as the soldiers whisk him away in a flurry of muskets.

He does not look back at her, but all the same, she watches him until he and his retinue vanish down the street, only the sound of their boots echoing behind them.

Into the quiet, her governess speaks. “If there are any other criminals you would like to speak to...”

“No,” Abigail says. “We may go now.”

And she goes—hands folded before her, head bowed as she follows her governess through the streets to the carriage awaiting their arrival.

They are only an hour from the city when the thunder starts. Abigail almost tells the driver to go back—to damn the foolishness, damn the danger, because knowing is so much better than not.

But this Abigail does not charge headlong into the chaos of the storm. This Abigail sits with her hands in her lap; does not crane her neck out the window to watch the smoke billowing from her father's home. This Abigail speaks soft, walks quiet, is once more small, once more meek.

But that is not all she is.

When she finishes what Charles helped her start, it is not what she will be, either.

 


End file.
